It was dark when she woke. Confused, disoriented, Morgan struggled to see where she was. The room was all shifting shadows and silence. There was a cover over her—something soft and light with a fringe of silk. Beneath it, she was warm and naked.
Nicholas, she thought in quick panic. She’d fallen asleep and he’d gone. On a moan, she sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. How could she have wasted those last precious moments together? How long? she thought abruptly. How long had he been gone? With trembling fingers, she reached for the lamp beside the bed.
The light eased some of her fears, but before she could climb out of bed to find a clock, she saw the note propped against the lamp. Taking it, Morgan studied the bold, strong writing. Go back to sleep was all it said.
How like him, she thought, and nearly laughed. Morgan kept the note in her hand, as if to keep Nick close, as she rose to look for her clothes. It didn’t take her long to discover they were gone.
“The louse!” Morgan said aloud, forgetting the tender thoughts she had only moments before. So, he wasn’t taking any chances making certain she stayed put. Naked, hands on her hips, she scowled around the room. Where the devil does he think I’d go? she asked herself. I have no way of knowing where he is . . . or what he’s doing, she thought on a fresh flood of worry.
Wait. Suddenly cold, Morgan pulled the cover from the bed and wrapped herself in it. All I can do is wait.
The time dripped by, minute by endless minute. She paced, then forced herself to sit, then paced again. It would be morning in only a few more hours, she told herself. In the morning, the wait would be over. For all of them.
She couldn’t bear it, she thought in despair one moment. She had to bear it, she told herself the next. Would he never get back? Would morning never come? On a sound of fury, she tossed the cover aside. She might have to wait, Morgan thought grimly as she marched to Nick’s closet. But she’d be damned if she’d wait naked.
***
Nick shifted the muscles in his shoulders and blocked out the need for a cigarette. Even the small light would be dangerous now. The cove was bathed in milky moonlight and silence. There would be a murmur now and then from behind a rock. Not from a spirit, but from a man in uniform. The cove still held secrets. Lifting his binoculars, Nick again scanned the sea.
“Any sign?” Tripolos seemed remarkably comfortable in his squat position behind a rock. He popped a tiny mint into his mouth and crunched quietly. Nick merely shook his head and handed the glasses to Stephanos.
“Thirty minutes,” Stephanos stated, chewing on the stem of his dead pipe. “The wind carries the sound of the motor.”
“I hear nothing.” Tripolos gave the old man a doubtful frown.
Nick chuckled as the familiar feeling of excitement rose. “Stephanos hears what others don’t. Just tell your men to be ready.”
“My men are ready.” His gaze flicked over Nick’s profile. “You enjoy your work, Mr. Gregoras.”
“At times,” Nick muttered, then grinned. “This time, by God.”
“And soon it’s over,” Stephanos said from beside him.
Nick turned his head to meet the old man’s eyes. He knew the statement covered more than this one job, but the whole of what had been Nick’s career. He hadn’t told him, but Stephanos knew. “Yes,” he said simply, then turned his eyes to the sea again.
He thought of Morgan and hoped she was still asleep. She’d looked so beautiful—and so exhausted when he’d come back into the room. Her cheeks had been damp. Damn, he couldn’t bear the thought of her tears. But he’d felt a wave of relief that she’d been asleep. He didn’t have to see her eyes when he left her.
She’s safer there than if I’d taken her back, Nick told himself. With luck, she’d still be asleep when he got back and then he’d have spared her hours of worry. Stashing her clothes had been an impulse that had eased his mind. Even Morgan wouldn’t go wandering around without a stitch on her back.
His grin flashed again. If she woke and looked for them, she’d curse him. The idea gave him a moment’s pleasure. He could see her, standing in the center of his room with only the moonlight covering her as she raged.
He felt the low aching need in the pit of his stomach, and promised himself he’d keep her just that way—naked fire—until the sun went down again.
Lifting the binoculars, he scanned the dark sea. “They’re coming.”
The moon threw the boat into silhouette. A dozen men watched her approach from clumps of rock and shadows. She came in silence, under the power of oars.
She was secured with little conversation and a few deft movements of rope. There was a scent Nick recognized. The scent of fear. A fresh bubble of excitement rose, though his face was deadly calm. He’s there, Nick thought. And we have him.
The crew left the boat to gather in the shadows of the beach. A hooded figure moved to join them. At Nick’s signal, the cove was flooded with light. The rocks became men.
“In the King’s name,” Tripolos stated grandly, “this vessel will be searched for illegal contraband. Put up your weapons and surrender.”
Shouts and the scrambling of men shattered the glasslike quiet of the cove. Men seeking to escape, and men seeking to capture tangled in the sudden chaos of sound and light. Gunfire shocked the balmy air. There were cries of pain and fury.
The smugglers would fight with fist and blade. The battle would be short, but grim. The sounds of violence bounced hollowly off the rocks and drifted out on the air.
Nick saw the hooded figure melt away from the confusion and streak from the cove. Swearing, he raced after it, thrusting his gun back in his belt. A burly form collided with him as another man sought escape. Each swore at the obstacle, knowing the only choice was to remove it.
Together, they rolled over the rocks, away from the noise and the light. Thrown into darkness, they tumbled helplessly until the ground leveled. A blade glistened, and Nick grasped the thick wrist with both hands to halt its plunge to his throat.
The crack of shots had Morgan springing up from her chair. Had she heard, or just imagined? she wondered as her heart began to thud. Could they be so close? As she stared into the darkness, she heard another shot, and the echo. Fear froze her.
He’s all right, she told herself. He’ll be here soon, and it’ll be over. I know he’s all right.
Before the sentence had finished racing through her mind, she was running down the steps and out of the villa.
Telling herself she was only being logical, Morgan headed for the beach. She was just going to meet him. He’d be coming along any minute, and she would see for herself that he wasn’t hurt. Nick’s jeans hung loosely at her hips as she streaked down the cliff path. Her breath was gasping now, the only sound as her feet padded on the hard dirt. Morgan thought it would almost be a relief to hear the guns again. If she heard them, she might be able to judge the direction. She could find him.
Then, from the top of the beach steps, she saw him walking across the sand. With a sob of shuddering relief, she flew down them to meet him.
He continued, too intent on his own thoughts to note her approach. Morgan started to shout his name, but the word strangled in her throat. She stopped running. Not Nicholas, she realized as she stared at the hooded figure. The moves were wrong, the walk. And he’d have no reason to wear the mask. Even as her thoughts began to race, he reached up and tore off the hood. Moonlight fell on golden hair.
Oh God, had she been a fool not to see it? Those calm, calm eyes—too calm, she thought frantically. Had she ever seen any real emotion in him? Morgan took a step in retreat, looking around desperately for some cover. But he turned. His face hardened as he saw her.
“Morgan, what are you doing out here?”
“I—I wanted to walk.” She struggled to sound casual. There was no place for her to run. “It’s a lovely night. Almost morning, really.” As he advanced on her she moistened her lips and kept talking. “I didn’t expect to see you. You surprised me. I thought?
??”
“You thought I was in Athens,” Dorian finished with a smile. “But as you see, I’m not. And, I’m afraid, Morgan, you’ve seen too much.” He held up the hood, dangling it a moment before he dropped it to the sand.
“Yes.” There was no use dissembling. “I have.”
“It’s a pity.” His smile vanished as though it had never been. “Still, you could be useful. An American hostage,” he said thoughtfully as he scanned her face. “Yes, and a woman.” Grabbing her arm, Dorian began to pull her across the sand.
She jerked and struggled against his hold. “I won’t go with you.”
“You have no choice”—he touched the handle of his knife—“unless you prefer to end up as Stevos did.”
Morgan swallowed as she stumbled across the beach. He said it so casually. Some people have no capacity for emotion—love, hate. He hadn’t been speaking of Iona, Morgan realized, but himself. He was as dangerous as any animal on the run.
“You tried to kill Iona too.”
“She’d become a nuisance. Greedy not only for money, but to hold me. She thought to blackmail me into marriage.” He gave a quick laugh. “I had only to tempt her with the heroin. I had thought the dose I gave her was enough.”
Purposely, Morgan fell to her knees as though she’d tripped. “You would have finished her that morning if I hadn’t found her first.”
“You have a habit of being in the wrong place.” Roughly, Dorian hauled her to her feet. “I had to play the worried lover for a time—dashing back and forth between Lesbos and Athens. A nuisance. Still, if I’d been allowed one moment alone with her in the hospital . . .” Then he shrugged, as if the life or the death of a woman meant nothing. “So, she’ll live and she’ll talk. It was time to move in any case.”
“You lost your last shipment,” Morgan blurted out, desperate to distract him from his hurried pace toward the beach steps. If he got her up there—up there in the rocks . . . and the dark . . .
Dorian froze and turned to her. “How do you know this?”
“I helped steal it,” she said impulsively. “Your place in the hills, the cave—”
The words choked off as his hand gripped her throat. “So you’ve taken what’s mine. Where is it?”
Morgan shook her head.
“Where?” Dorian demanded as his fingers tightened.
A god, she thought staring into his face as the moonlight streamed over it. He had the face of a god. Why hadn’t she remembered her own thought that gods were bloodthirsty? Morgan put a hand to his wrist as if in surrender. His fingers eased slightly.
“Go to hell.”
Swiftly, he swept the back of his hand across her face, knocking her to the sand. His eyes were a calm empty blue as he looked down at her. “You’ll tell me before I’m through with you. You’ll beg to tell me. There’ll be time,” he continued as he walked toward her, “when we’re off the island.”
“I’ll tell you nothing.” With the blood singing in her ears, Morgan inched away from him. “The police know who you are, there isn’t a hole big enough for you to hide in.”
Reaching down, he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her painfully to her feet. “If you prefer to die—”
Then she was free, going down to her knees again as Dorian stumbled back and fell onto the sand.
“Nick.” Dorian rubbed the blood from his mouth as his gaze traveled up. “This is a surprise.” It dropped again to the revolver Nick held in his hand. “Quite a surprise.”
“Nicholas!” Scrambling up, Morgan ran to him. He never looked at her. His arm was rigid as iron when she gripped it. “I thought—I was afraid you were dead.”
“Get up,” he told Dorian with a quick gesture of the gun. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your head while you lie there.”
“Were you hurt?” Morgan shook his arm, wanting some sign. She’d seen that cold, hard look before. “When I heard the shots—”
“Only detained.” Nick pushed her aside, his gaze fixed on Dorian. “Get rid of the gun. Toss it over there.” He jerked his head and leveled his own revolver. “Two fingers. If you breathe wrong, you won’t breathe again.”
Dorian lifted out his gun in a slow, steady motion and tossed it aside. “I have to admit you amaze me, Nick. It’s been you who’s been hounding me for months.”
“My pleasure.”
“And I would have sworn you were a man concerned only with collecting his trinkets and making money. I’ve always admired your ruthlessness in business—but it seems I wasn’t aware of all of your business.” One graceful brow rose. “A policeman?”
Nick gave a thin smile. “I answer to one man only,” he said quietly. “Adonti.” The momentary flash of fear in Dorian’s eyes gave him great pleasure. “You and I might have come to this sooner. We nearly did last night.”
A shadow touched Dorian’s face briefly, then was gone. “Last night?”
“Did you think it was only a goat who watched you?” Nick asked with a brittle laugh.
“No.” Dorian gave a brief nod. “I smelled something more—foolish of me not to have pursued it.”
“You’ve gotten careless, Dorian. I took your place on your last run and made your men tremble.”
“You,” Dorian breathed.
“A rich cache,” Nick added, “according to my associates in Athens. It might have been over for you then, but I waited until I was certain Alex wasn’t involved. It was worth the wait.”
“Alex?” Dorian laughed with the first sign of true pleasure. “Alex wouldn’t have the stomach for it. He thinks only of his wife and his ships and his honor.” He gave Nick a thoughtful glance. “But it seems I misjudged you. I thought you a rich, rather singleminded fool, a bit of a nuisance with Iona this trip, but hardly worth a passing thought. My congratulations on your talent for deceit, and”—he let his gaze travel and rest on Morgan—“your taste.”
“Efxaristo.”
Morgan watched in confusion, then in terror, as Nick tossed his gun down to join Dorian’s. They lay side by side, black and ugly, on the white sand.
“It’s my duty to turn you over to Captain Tripolos and the Greek authorities.” Calmly, slowly, Nick drew out a knife. “But it will be my pleasure to cut out your heart for putting your hands on my woman.”
“No! Nicholas, don’t!”
Nick stopped Morgan’s panicked rush toward him with a terse command. “Go back to the villa and stay there.”
“Please,” Dorian interrupted with a smile as he got to his feet. “Morgan must stay. Such an interesting development.” He pulled out his own knife with a flourish. “She’ll be quite a prize for the one who lives.”
“Go,” Nick ordered again. His hand tensed on the knife. He was half Greek, and Greek enough to have tasted blood when he had seen Dorian strike her. Morgan saw the look in his eyes.
“Nicholas, you can’t. He didn’t hurt me.”
“He left his mark on your face,” he said softly, and turned the knife in his hand. “Stay out of the way.”
Touching her hand to her cheek, she stumbled back.
They crouched and circled. As she watched, the knives caught the moonlight and held it. Glittering silver, dazzling and beautiful.
At Dorian’s first thrust, Morgan covered her mouth to hold back a scream. There was none of the graceful choreography of a staged fight. This was real and deadly. There were no adventurous grins or bold laughs with the thrusts and parries. Both men had death in his eyes. Morgan could smell the sweat and the sweet scent of blood from both of them.
Starlight dappled over their faces, giving them both a ghostly pallor. All she could hear was the sound of their breathing, the sound of the sea, the sound of steel whistling through the air. Nick was leading him closer to the surf—away from Morgan. Emotion was frozen in him. Anger, such anger, but he knew too much to let it escape. Dorian fought coldly. An empty heart was its own skill.
“I’ll pleasure myself with your woman before the night’s over,” Dorian tol
d him as blade met blade. His lips curved as he saw the quick, naked fury in Nick’s eyes.
Morgan watched with horror as a bright stain spread down Nick’s sleeve where Dorian had slipped through his guard. She would have screamed, but there was no breath in her. She would have prayed, but even her thoughts were frozen.
The speed with which they came together left her stunned. One moment they were separate, and the next they were locked together as one tangled form. They rolled to the sand, a confusion of limbs and knives. She could hear the labored breathing and grunted curses. Then Dorian was on top of him. Morgan watched, numb with terror, as he plunged his knife. It struck the sand, a whisper away from Nick’s face. Without thought, Morgan fell on the guns.
Once, the revolver slipped through her wet hands, back onto the sand. Gritting her teeth, she gripped it again. As she knelt, she aimed toward the entwined bodies. Coldly, willing herself to do what she had always despised, she prepared to kill.
A cry split the air, animal and primitive. Not knowing which one of them it had been torn from, Morgan clutched the gun with both hands and kept it aimed on the now motionless heap in the sand. She could still hear breathing—but only from one. If Dorian stood up, she swore to herself, and to Nick, that she would pull the trigger.
A shadow moved. She heard the labored breathing and pressed her lips together. Against the trigger, her finger shook lightly.
“Put that damn thing down, Morgan, before you kill me.”
“Nicholas.” The gun slipped from her nerveless hand.